A warning

I feel like I should warn you,
whisper to you
"I’m going to write about you private man."
on scraps of paper
and on the backs of receipts,
stickynotes.

I know I will fill composition notebooks.
I can feel the pages white and clean before us
just waiting for so many words.
I might even lift my pen
and touch it to the inside of my thigh,
velvet, wet
black tip, cold, damp.

I’m afraid to tell you, or ask.
You should have the right to step away,
from the florid swirl of my pen,
the hot stroke of my language,
the purr and cadance of my longing,
roped out in poetry
stringy thick
and scenting of your semen.